The Brooklyn Masonic Hall is a bitch to find when the car drops you five blocks away. So you stop by each Chinese dive and crowded café and hope you see a Gorgoroth shirt so you can ask the guy wearing it whether he just came from Immortal’s first New York City show in four years. “They’re playing now.” So you hustle up the street like you love Satan like you do.

Within minutes of arrival two security guards have me by the arms and I’ve been thrown on the ground because I tell them I’m not leaving. You can’t just surf the crowd at a black metal show because Satan wouldn’t want you to. I smoke a cigarette with a Perfecto-clad kid ejected for the same charge and disguise myself by putting my leather jacket over my studded vest. I walk back in as though I’m covering the night for a prestigious fashion magazine.

Immortal is druids upon the stage. While the black mass writhes to the sound of napalm produced by guitars and submachine-drums, you can be nothing but certain of the effectiveness of this brand of prayer. From their 1992 Diabolical Fullmoon Mysticism to last year’s All Shall Fall, the band tore threw its oeuvre of two decades. The triple encore came only after Cole had been expelled for surfing the crowd but before I needed to play chicken with the traffic on Lafayette, yelling at the hundreds that poured out of the mouth of the Mason’s house, “do you just let cars pass in front of a black metal show?”

myspace.com/immortalofficial

Photography Raquel Nave

KEYWORDS: Music

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